


The Menorah

by KylaraIngress



Series: Traditions, Old & New [1]
Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Challenge Response, Holidays, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Third Person, leap home AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaraIngress/pseuds/KylaraIngress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al and Sam reflect about traditions over a menorah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Third Person version

**Author's Note:**

> Written in December 2001, and put here as part of Throwback Thursdays.
> 
> This was an answer to a December 2001 POV mini-challenge on the Slash Writers Yahoogroup:
> 
>  
> 
> _take a holiday, choose one specific event from that holiday, then write the scene from third person POV. Then re-write the scene from one person's POV._
> 
>  
> 
> When my beta read the first two sections, she said she would have no problem if the final version actually SHOWED both POVs. When fellow slash writer J.D. Rush read it, she asked for Sam's POV to boot. 
> 
> Plus, it gave me an idea for a whole slew of stories revolving around the various traditions these two would celebrate. So, what follows is that first story, with all three POVs. Each POV is a separate chapter.

**December 10:**

Al flicked a match in his hand, and with a snap and a hiss, the flame shot forth. He slowly bent over the first candle, and with a reverence usually reserved to choosing his wardrobe for the day, he touched the wick with the match, as he had done for somany years in the past.

"Al, are you lighting a menorah?" Sam asked, walking into the living room and doing a double take at the sight of Al. He had been home for a few months now, and was temporarily staying at Al's until he could get re-oriented to one timeline and one set of memories.

Al straightened up, turning quickly away – the reverence gone in a second. "Oh, hey, Sam. Uh, yeah – been doin' that since Ruthie." There was no need to say more. Sam remembered that in this timeline Ruthie was only Al's second wife – and both wives had been lost not to divorce, but to death. Beth had died tragically in a car crash a year after Al's repatriation, while Ruthie's had been a gradual loss to cancer. Al hadn't married again in this history, but considering the way Al had talked about her over the years of leaping, Sam was surprised that the titillating Tina wasn't wife number three. Maybe, he hoped, there was a reason why – a reason that related back to his own feelings about their relationship.

"Tradition?" Sam joked, his voice imitating Tevye's in _Fiddler on the Roof_.

"Yeah," Al smiled back – ready and willing to joke away the seriousness. "So, any more memories return last night?" Al had realized that, like the last time Sam had leaped back into his own time, his memories only slowly returned – and they seemed to come back mostly at night, in dreams.

"Your wedding to Maxine," Sam joked, giving Al a half-smile. Al's fifth wife in the old timeline, the wedding had been one hell of a blowout, and Al wasn't too surprised Sam remembered it. Now, Al wondered if the ex-leaper would remember his own wedding one of these days, even if it was relegated to a different past.

"That's definitely a marriage I'm glad didn't take place now," Al couldn't help but joke. Maxine was the worst of them, he knew, for he had only married her to prove to the Navy (and himself) that his friendship with Sam was just that. Al saw Sam's eyes cloud at his comment, and he hurriedly changed the subject. "The menorah, it's kinda an odd tradition with me," he said, turning back to the silver candelabrum.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, stepping in closer to the table. He gave his friend a half-hearted smile, then continued, "And what would that be?"

"Well, instead of giving myself a present for each day of Chanukah," Al started, hesitating, "I kinda changed it to where, like with birthdays, I would make a wish for each candle."

"So what did you wish for?" Sam asked. "Or is that gonna make the wish not come true?"

"I . . . uh," Al stumbled, looking away from his friend, "I ended up wishing for the same thing I did every year, even though there's no need for it. Tradition, I guess," he parroted Sam's earlier statement.

"And that wish was . . . ."

"This," Al said, waving around him.

"The apartment?" Sam asked, not quite understanding.

"No," Al replied, exasperated. "You, here, home, safe. Not . . . out there," he whispered, waving to the netherworld that represented Sam leaping.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologized for what seemed the billionth time since leaping home. He laid his hand on Al's shoulder, knowing that the touch would calm his friend. It was a physical reminder that they were no longer holograms to each other, and represented the bigger idea that Sam was no longer leaping.

"Hey, don't beat yerself up about it," Al replied, placing his hand on Sam's arm for reassurance. "You did what you had to do, for the funding. I've never blamed you," he continued. "I just was worried about you, that's all." A slight pause, and then came the whispered admission, "I missed ya, kid."

The touch became a leaning, which became a hug, as the two reminded themselves of how much they had been through over the years. The candle flame flickered and grew as the hug became tinged with desperation, and the two clung to each other much in the same way they had when Ziggy first announced that the person in the waiting room was none other than Dr. Sam Beckett.

The flame steadied as the two caught their breath and stepped aside, control once again asserting itself. "So," Sam said, trying to get back into the conversation, "what will you wish for now that I'm home?"

"I don't know," Al whispered, looking away, busy smoothing down his suit to take away from the mushiness of the hug. "This is the first year any of my wishes have come true. Maybe I shouldn't jinx it."

"Well," Sam asked, starting to feel like he could tease again, "what were your other wishes?" He looked back at the menorah, and said, "After all, it's an eight day festival. Maybe I can help with some of those others."

"Only one of them," Al whispered, not quite aware he was saying it aloud.

"What?" Sam's ears perked up at the near-admission, and the hope welled up in him again.

"Nothin'," he was quick to cover. "Ah . . . I don't remember – you bein' home was the only steady one I had."

"Al, you know I can tell when you lie to me," Sam said reproachfully. "Ever since we simo-leaped, I've had a good instinct when it comes to your mind."

"You . . . remember . . . ."

"The whole leap, Al," Sam said, coming a little closer. "Even Donna."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. And before you ask, no, I'm not disappointed that she's not here in this timeline." Sam sighed, wringing his hands. He had thought more than once about what would've happened if she'd still been here when he came home. But it was time to set the record straight for Al. "I don't think I could've stood the amount of guilt I would've felt at the concept of making her feel comfortable with a man who wouldn't abandon her, then . . . well, abandoning her. Twice," he said, giving a sardonic grin. "I didn't really think that through when I went after her in that leap, did I?"

"Uh . . . ."

"Besides," he said, taking the initiative – after all, if there was one thing he learned in his five years of leaping, it was to make every moment count, "she would've ended up divorcing me anyway when she found out she's not the one I love."

"Urg . . . ."

"Al?" Sam asked, moving to where his intentions were very clear, right up against Al.

"Huh?"

"What was your other constant wish?"

Al looked everywhere but at Sam. He hedged, saying, "You said you had a good instinct when it came to my mind. What do YOU think my wish was?"

Sam leaned over Al's shoulder, making the top of his chest brush up against Al's upper arm, grabbed a match, and lit the second candle on the menorah. And with a small, hesitant grin, he whispered, "This," and leaned down, brushing his lips against Al's.

And the candles burned for the rest of the evening, in celebration of new beginnings.

 


	2. Al's POV

The whispered words of the wish were out of my mouth before I could stop them; I watched as the candle was brought to life from my match, and I sat there for a minute, remembering each time I had done this in the past, wondering how many more years I would still continue this habit.

"Al, are you lighting a menorah?" Sam asked, his voice growing louder as he walked into the living room. I straightened up quickly – I had forgotten he was staying with me temporarily, until we were completely sure his memories had congealed into one timeline.

"Oh, hey, Sam," I said, turning away from the candles. "Uh, yeah – been doin' that since Ruthie." In order to keep my sanity, I had learned early to not try and remember every version of my past, but this was one I wasn't sure if I liked. Ruthie, like before, had died of cancer – but this time, she was only my second wife – and I was a widower twice over, as Beth had died in a stupid car wreck a year after I came back from Hell. I hadn't married again, and part of me wondered how much of it had to do with the shining flash of light that was Sam Beckett.

"Tradition?" Sam joked, soundin' like the father in _Fiddler on the Roof_. I was glad – he could see I was uncomfortable with the seriousness of it all.

"Yeah," I smiled back. I saw that his clothes were more mussed than usual, and I jumped to the conclusion that he had a busy night. "So, any memories return last night?" The night he came back, he was – like last time – only remembering the current timeline, but as the nights continued, he would get flashes of alternate ones in his dreams. The punishment for having a photographic memory, I guess.

"Your wedding to Maxine," he said, giving me a half-smile. I returned the smile, remembering that blowout myself. Originally my fifth wife, out of all my weddings, that had to have been the worst – for I had only married her to try and stop the thoughts I was havin' about my best male friend. I wondered if he would remember his own wedding to Donna now, even if she was no longer a part of this world.

"That's definitely a marriage I'm glad didn't take place now," I couldn't help but joke, then realized what I had said. If anything was to remind him of the wedding-that-never-was, it would've been that. So, like it was a leap again, I changed the subject. "The menorah, it's kinda an odd tradition with me." I turned back to gaze at the one thing of Ruthie's I had kept over these years. It, out of everything, represented that sense of family, tradition.

"Yeah?" he asked, stepping closer to the table so as to still be in my line of sight. He gave me another half-smile and continued, "And what would that be?"

How did I explain this? It was such an odd thing, a way to get around the obligations of the gifts. "Well," I started, "instead of giving myself a present for each day of Chanukah, I kinda changed it to where, like with birthdays, I would make a wish for each candle."

"So, what did you wish for?" Sam asked, curious as always. "Or is that gonna make the wish not true?" I had to give a smile at that; it was his way of playfully berating my sense of superstition, I was sure.

"I . . . uh," I started, suddenly remembering what I had wished for, and had to look away from those dangerous eyes of his, "I ended up wishing for the same thing I did every year, even though there's no need for it." I shook my head in tolerance, parroting, "Tradition, I guess."

"And that wish was . . . ."

Geez, the kid wasn't gonna let it rest, was he? "This," I said, giving a general motion in his general direction.

"The apartment?" he asked, and I had to turn to look to see if he was really misunderstanding. Yep, he was.

"No," I sighed. "You, here, home, safe. Not . . . out there," and another wave of my hand to represent that other place he had been for five long years.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologized – again. Geez, the kid was his own worst enemy when it came to survivor guilt. He brought his hand out to rest on my shoulder, a physical reminder that he was here, not on some leap somewhere.

"Hey, don't beat yerself up about it," I tried to reassure him – again, and touched him back as a result. "You did what you had to do, for the funding. I never blamed you. I just was worried about you, that's all." And . . . I had to tell him, at least once, "I missed ya, kid."

Our hands, wrapped around each other's shoulders, were only one step away from the hug that needed to be done, and we gradually fell into it, reminding ourselves of the past five years. A sudden memory of a leap, one of the more horrible ones, filtered through my mind – Sam, laying there, bleeding. Without warning, I crushed him to me, holding onto him as if anchoring him to this time and place, much the same way I had done that first hug when we knew he was home. And just breathed in his scent.

Like always, I broke away before it got too serious – God only knew what he would do if he could read what was going through my mind, of how him constantly in danger had made me realize how much he truly meant to me.

"So," Sam said as I busied myself with smoothing down my suit, "what will you wish for now that I'm home?"

"I don't know," I said, glad he didn't want to explore the reasons behind that hug. "This is the first year any of my wishes have come true. Maybe I shouldn't jinx it."

"Well," Sam asked, taking another step so I could see the smile on his face, "what were your other wishes? After all, it's an eight day festival," he said, motioning to the menorah. Maybe I can help with some of those others."

"Only one of them," I couldn't help but say softly. Whereas my first wish was always to see him home safe and alive, my last wish was a lot less altruistic, dealing in things that required the first wish to happen.

"What?" he asked, making me realize he had heard me, and was lettin' those wheels of his turn.

"Nothin'," I quickly covered. "Ah . . . I don't remember," I blatantly lied, "you bein' home was the only steady one I had."

"Al, you know I can tell when you lie to me," Sam said, bringing his hands to his hips in his 'don't mess with me' stance. "Ever since we simo-leaped, I've had a good instinct when it comes to your mind."

Ever since what? "You . . . remember . . ." I babbled out, not quite believing what I had heard. He had yet to mention that leap.

"The whole leap, Al," he said, taking another step closer to me. "Even Donna."

What? He remembered . . . Donna? And he hadn't said anything? "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," he laughed. With a quick gesture, he cut off my rebuttal, saying, "And before you ask, no, I'm not disappointed that she's not here in this timeline." As Sam sat there, debating what else to say, I could feel myself reeling in shock. Not only did he remember her, but he actually was glad she wasn't here? "I don't think I could've stood the amount of guilt I would've felt at the concept of making her feel comfortable with a man who wouldn't abandon her, then . . . well, abandoning her." I couldn't believe my ears. He was once again the martyr, but sayin' things I had thought myself at the time. "Twice," he added with a twist of the smile, letting me see that he had no regrets of going back in the accelerator to save me on that leap. "I didn't really think that through when I went after her in that leap, did I?"

"Uh . . ." I could barely manage, wondering when all these memories had come back to him, and wondering as well when he was gonna get around to tellin' me. This made it a whole new ballgame!

"Besides," he said, taking another step, "she would've ended up divorcing me anyway when she found out she's not the one I love."

Then again, the ballgame may have been over. He was in love with someone else? Could I handle seein' the man that had become more precious to me than anything go after someone who wasn't me? "Urg . . . ."

"Al?" he asked, taking that final step to where he was close enough, our clothes were touching.

"Huh?" I continued along in my babbling, wondering if what I was seeing was what I was really seeing.

"What was your other constant wish?"

Shit – this was all for him to find out that other wish? I couldn't face those eyes, that face, knowing I couldn't lie, but not wanting to get in the way of any happiness he would find in this world. "You said you had a good instinct when it came to my mind," I hedged, not wanting to say anything. "What do YOU think my wish was?"

Sam leaned over my shoulder, making the top of his chest brush slightly up against my arm, and I could hear him grab and light a match. I angled my head so as to see that he had lit the second candle on the menorah. I looked back up at him, and lost my heart once more as I saw his shy grin on his face. "This," he whispered, leaning down, and gave me a quick brush of his lips against mine. It was the sweetest kiss I had ever had.

And I heard myself whisper that final wish. As I reached up to kiss him back, I realized that next year, I would be starting a whole new tradition.


	3. Sam's POV

I watched from the hallway as Al reverently lit the small menorah, me being the observer for a change. To see him so serious about something, well, I couldn't very well just ignore it.

"Al, are you lighting a menorah?" I asked, walking into the living room. His living room. After coming home a few months ago to a life and set of memories I wasn't familiar with, I had opted to stay with Al for the cover reason of getting settled. Hopefully, Al wouldn't quite realize the real reason I wanted to stay with him.

He straightened quickly, suddenly back to the casual mask he felt obligated to wear even in front of me. "Oh, hey, Sam. Uh, yeah – been doin' that since Ruthie." I gave a slight wince as the memories of what Ruthie meant to him in this timeline filtered through my brain. This time, she was his second wife; this time, both she and Beth had left him via death; this time, the pain had led to him not getting married again. But the way he had gone on about her during the leaps, I was kinda surprised that Tina hadn't stepped up to the plate to become wife number three. Maybe . . . I hoped that maybe, there was a reason why – a reason that equaled mine for staying with him. Maybe, he felt the same way about me that I did him.

I had to say something, before he suspected something, so I joked, "Tradition?" giving my best _Fiddler on the Roof_  imitation.

"Yeah," he smiled gratefully, ready and willing to get back to jokes. Even after all we had shared on the leaps, he still was nervous about being 'mushy'. He gave me a perusal, which made me suddenly realize I was still in my pajamas, and asked, concerned, "So, any more memories return last night?"

Like when I leaped back home the last time, I had only maintained memories of the current timeline. But, my dreams had been the key to the other ones, it seemed. I would occasionally dream something that ended up being an alternate history – the curse of a photographic memory, I guess. "Your wedding to Maxine," I said with a slight grin. I had given my friend a bachelor party that made him seriously rethink his nicknaming me "The Prudent Prince", and part of me wondered how much of that was because even in that timeline, I was drawn to him and his character in ways that I felt would not be returned. After all, a guy like Al Calavicci didn't get married that many times if he was gay, right?

"That's definitely a marriage I'm glad didn't take place now," he joked. My eyes clouded at the comment; maybe he did marry because he was gay. He did love the Navy, after all. But before I had a chance to pursue it, he changed the subject back to the previous topic. "The menorah," he said, turning back to the object in question, "it's kinda an add tradition with me."

"Yeah?" I asked, stepping up closer. What can I say? I took any excuse I could to be closer to Al. The years of not being able to touch only made my desire for him sharpen. "And what would that be?" I continued, giving him another half-grin.

"Well, instead of giving myself a present for each day of Chanukah, I kinda changed it to where, like with birthdays, I would make a wish for each candle." That made sense. The man who grew up without presents on Christmas for too many years would stray from that connotation of any kind of holiday. He even was a little leery of giving me a present for birthdays and Christmas.

"So, what did you wish for?" I asked. "Or is that gonna make the wish not come true?" I loved giving him grief about his superstitions – one of the many things about him I loved.

"I . . . uh, I ended up wishing for the same thing I did every year, even though there's no need for it. Tradition, I guess."

I was a little taken aback at his stumbling. To have Al be speechless, it had to have been a biggie. "And that wish was . . . ."

"This," he said, giving a half-hearted wave in my direction.

Could he . . . . Nah, he couldn't have meant what I thought he did. So, I made the next assumption, asking, "The apartment?"

He just gave me that 'I like you anyway' stare he does, and said, "No. You, here, home, safe." He gave a quiet sigh and waved to represent the netherworld of leaping as he finally admitted, "Not . . . out there."

"I'm sorry." The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. When I took that first leap, I didn't expect to be lost for five years. Hell, if I had to be honest with myself, part of me didn't expect to live. And while Al didn't have to be the only one hooked up to me (I'm sure they could've jerry-rigged a more permanent replacement if needed; after all, Gushie proved it could be done), he had chosen to stay at my side, leap after leap. I laid my hand on his shoulder, trying to convey in that one touch how grateful I was for his loyalty. It was also a reminder that the leaping was over, for he had still gone with the same wish despite me being home.

"Hey," he replied, putting his hand on my arm in return, "don't beat yerself up about it. You did what you had to do, for the funding." He sighed. "I just was worried about you, that's all." And quietly, no doubt hoping for forgiveness for his foray into mushiness, he continued, "I missed ya, kid."

I leaned into him, grateful for at least that admission. While our relationship may never go where I wanted, at least he could admit he missed me. Obviously grateful to be able to touch again, he pulled me into a hug that I just reveled in, letting myself take as much as he was willing to give, knowing each touch from this man was a far more precious gift than any material object he could give me.

Before I was ready to give him up (would I ever be ready to give him up?), he pulled away, going back to his in-control self, and I internally cried at the sudden cooling of skin I felt at his absence. "So," I said, trying to get control myself, "what will you wish for now that I'm home?"

"I don't know," he said, turning away from me. "This is the first year any of my wishes have come true. Maybe I shouldn't jinx it."

Of course. The man had so many superstitions, I was surprised he even came to work on Friday the 13th. "Well," I teased, "what were your other wishes? After all," I said, noting the menorah, "it's an eight day festival." I couldn't help the leer on my face as I said, "Maybe I can help with some of the others."

"Only one of them," he whispered – music to my ears. He had another wish regarding me? Another constant wish? Could it be?

"What?" I had to ask for clarification, had to see if he was willing to give me another sign.

"Nothin'," he was quick to cover, as I half expected. Oh, Al – when will you ever learn that I care about you too much to let anything get in our way? "Ah . . . I don't remember – you bein' home was the only steady one I had."

"Al," I entreated, "you know I can tell when you lie to me." Time to start puttin' the cards on the table. "Ever since we simo-leaped, I've had a good instinct when it comes to your mind." Hell, after that leap, I had all sorts of insight into his character. But whether he was conscious of some of them, I had yet to figure out.

"You . . . remember . . . ." Ah, I finally had him flustered. That's when I realized part of why he was being so hedgy about everything. He still expected me to be madly in love with . . . .

"The whole leap," I admitted. "Even Donna."

"Oh."

I gave a chuckle at that. "Yeah, oh. And before you ask," I started, realizing what his next question would've been, "no, I'm not disappointed that she's not here in this timeline." I wrung my hands as I racked my brain for the best way to phrase some of the things I had realized over the few months I've been home. It was time to set the record straight for Al. "I don't think I could've stood the amount of guilt I would've felt at the concept of making her feel comfortable with a man who wouldn't abandon her, then . . . well, abandoning her. Twice. I didn't really think that through when I went after her in that leap, did I?" I asked with a sarcastic grin.

"Uh . . ." he stammered out, and I decided to press my advantage.

I took a step closer, realizing that I'd wasted enough time over the past five years. While he might slug me for it, I knew he would never hate me for what I felt. "Besides, she would've ended up divorcing me anyway when she found out she's not the one I love."

"Urg . . ." he continued to babble, and I realized he thought I was talking about someone else. If he was thinking straight, he'd have realized there was no one else in my life but him.

So, I took that final step, crossing that line into personal space, but still giving him enough room to bolt if he felt the need. "Al?"

"Huh?" he asked, and if I was still unsure about his feelings about me, the pant in his breath and the slight flush on his face were signs, good signs, toward the fulfillment of my hopes.

"What was your other constant wish?" I had to ask, I had to find out if my intuition was right about this oh-so-important wish.

He looked away from me, breathing deep, and hedged, "You said you had a good instinct when it came to my mind. What do YOU think my wish was?"

I leaned over his shoulder for two reasons. As I lit the second candle, I also brushed up against him, and relief filled me as I felt him shudder in desire. "This," I whispered. Leaning down, I took that final leap of faith and gave him a quick kiss, a small brushing of lips that held the promise of all to come.

And as he reached back up to make the kiss more passionate, I realized that I would get to help make many more traditions with this man in the years to come.


End file.
